


A Debt to Pay

by deadheads



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Dubious Consent, Erotic Electrostimulation, Eventual Smut, F/M, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Power Imbalance, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadheads/pseuds/deadheads
Summary: He has a debt to pay. You happen to be collateral. Something blooms in the dark place where your paths cross.





	1. Fifteen Days, Three Hundred and Sixty Something Hours and Thirty Two Spots on the Ceiling

 

Fifteen days.

That’s three hundred and sixty something hours if your maths right.

What would that be in seconds? Maybe you should ask the old fuck when he next comes into your holding cell with a tray of food and dark gaze.

Fifteen days, that’s three hundred and sixty something hours.

That’s how long you’ve been here, tethered to a concrete wall by a thick steel chain and collar around your neck. Besides the restraint, the only other contents of the room are a bed and rusty metal bucket-turned-toilet. Lovely company, if you say so yourself. Oh, and not to forget the three daily visits from your captor.

Who is he? God knows. From what you can tell, he’s an old man who hasn’t said a single word to you in all the time you’ve been here.

No explanation, no run-down of the rules, no rape and certainly no physical contact.

Nothing.

You, of course, haven’t dared ask what he intends to do with you.

But why the fuck would you? I mean, he kidnapped you and now he’s holding you prisoner in his twisted B-grade horror movie torture chamber.

Besides the aforementioned facts, his aura alone is enough to scare you away from the thought of asking what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at. The guy practically floats through the big steel door to your cell three times a day to feed you, his every step exuding the kind of omnipotence you’d expect from an immortal, timeless and all-knowing Lovecraftian creature. All this, and despite his rail-thin frame and apparent age, made your blood run cold.

You don’t doubt he could snap your neck with those leathery hands of his.

Looks are deceiving, after all.

But really, the fucking monster couldn’t even give you a book? A piece of paper to occupy yourself with, perhaps? Oh, what you would give to be able to make a paper crane – and to shove its pointy little edges into his eyes.

Or a gun, a gun would be good too.

Nice and fast, you could shoot him right in the face.

Or, maybe, you could do it slowly.

Maybe you could take his kneecaps out with a couple of bullets and play with him for a while, scare him as he has scared you.

No one would hear.

No one would know.

You shift on the cold stone floor, plonking your head back against the wall that is propping you up, so you can, for the hundredth time, count the spots where water is leaking through the concrete ceiling.

There are thirty-two spots, that you can count.

You began to count out thirty-two with your fingers like a child would when you hear the all too familiar metal jingle of keys being rustled from a pocket and into the lock on your holding cell’s door.

You jolt, standing up fast and press yourself against the wall behind you. Your white, cotton sleeping gown gathers up around your waist and you struggle to quickly shove it down, lest the old man sees you in a state of undress and make assumptions. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry, your heart suddenly hammering against your rib cage.

It never gets less terrifying.

You see a tuft of wild, pale blue hair peek through the doorway before he steps into your room, a tray with a steaming hot TV dinner in his spidery hands.

You cast your eyes down to the floor, standing as still as you can, trying to disappear into the stone pressed against your back.

He stands there, in the doorway for a moment, too still, too quiet and then he sighs.

Huh.

This is new.

You allow yourself to glance up, through your lashes, at him. He’s wearing his usual garb, beige slacks, light blue shirt and a dirty white lab coat that seems tailor-made and sleek.

That coat has always intrigued you – scientists wear lab coats, doctors, too. Is that what he is? What would that mean for you, if so? Maybe you’re here as some sort of guinea pig for one of his experiments. Or if he’s a doctor, maybe he’s preparing to harvest your organs to sell on the black market.

You watched a news special on CBS about that once and it gave you the creeps for a couple of months, causing an irrational avoidance of the doctor's office in some half-assed attempt to escape that particular fear.

Well, good job you, you sure escaped the organ harvesting baddies by not getting your vaccinations!

God, you really are a fucking idiot.

You lift your weary, sleep-starved gaze, timidly, to sneak a quick peek at his face and when your eyes meet his cold, pale blue ones, you jolt in terror.

This is not the routine.

Why is he looking at me- oh God, oh fuck, this is it! He’s going to rip out your kidneys and put them in a damned icebox, isn’t he?

He’s still staring at you, whilst you panic, still holding the tray in his hands like it’s some sort of barrier betwixt the two of you. You only break the staring contest when he raises a brow, questioning.

Don’t move, don’t speak. Stay still and he will leave.

He always leaves.

You clasp your clammy hands together and rest them at your waist, biting your tongue hard, desperately holding in your dangerous questions of why and how and what it is exactly what he wants with you.

The sound of the door closing – and locking – sends a shiver down your spine.

Why isn’t he leaving? Fuck off! Go away, please, just leave the food and fuck off!

Usually, he just leaves the tray on the floor and makes a swift exit.

Why is this time different?

He’s never lingered like this – why now?

You hear, listening intently, as he walks up to the bed that sits between where you have plastered yourself against the wall and the door from where he came. He places the tray onto the duvet carefully.

“Ahem,” he coughs, voice deep and husky and not at all how you imagined it, “Eyes to me.”

Your white-knuckled grip grows paler and paler under your bug-eyed stare as you desperately clasp at your flimsy dress in a wordless plea.

“Look at m-me, now, or I’ll – you’ll lose your eyes,” your captor spits at you, impatient, his taking a cruel tone, “I won’t fuckin’ ask again.”

Your eyes meet his in a split second.

You see his brow soften, pleased at your compliance.

The man stands, arms crossed, at the opposite side of the bed. His face is lined with years of age, decades of battle having hardened his sharp features, with all the scars and wrinkles to prove it. His thick brows are furrowed in an annoyed glare. You shift uncomfortably, back stiff as a rod, swallowing dryly in an attempt to rid yourself of the lump in your throat.

“Tomorrow we-we-we’re gonna be leaving here, you will be a good gi- behave as you have this past, uh, t-two weeks and for that, I won’t kill you. Do you un- am I understood?”

A nod is all you can manage, beads of stress-induced sweat trickle down your brow. Your eyes are stinging, tears threatening to spill from them and join the sheen of perspiration on your sticky, flushed cheeks.

“You will not s-speak to anyone, you will not look a-around – look at fucking anyone and when I hand you over, you’re gonna- you will b-behave. I will not- I fucking won’t tolerate any inso-insolence. One step outta line and I’ll m-make you bleed – hurt you, bad, g-girl.”

“Okay,” you breathe, trying not to sound affected despite your current state of panic, shaking harder than you ever have before, “I understand.”

He shoots you a look of annoyance, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, and pulling out a flask to take a long swig of what must be hard liquor.

That explains the st-st-stuttering.

Inwardly, you sneer at him. Alcoholic psycho, fuck you, I’m not gonna just lay down and accept this shit.

“No, n-no, you don’t understand- at all,” he interrupts your internal glowering, his long arms crossed at his chest once more, “I don’t make a habit – it’s not a, a fucking hobby – I don’t usually do this k-kidnapping shit. You’re only here b-because someone has- he has something I need. Has someone, s-someone I need back.”

You cock your head to the side in a moment of daring curiosity, searching the man’s gaze for more definite answers.

“And you, uh, you need to trade. To trade… me?” you ask, waiting to see if you have crossed a line in your mysterious unspoken rulebook by speaking out of line.

Annoyance, then a flash, gone as fast as it had come, of shame, colored his silver eyes.

“Y-yeah,” he grunts, his gaze unwavering, boring into you, “They want a… Well, you-you can imagine, what they want.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, playing up your naivety, “I can’t imagine what.”

He makes a move, stepping to the right as though he intends to come at you around the bed, but then stills. His hands are clenched, expression dangerous, shooting a look of warning right back at you for your small act of defiance.

“D-don’t act dumb, it’s not a good look on you,” the man seethes, “He wants a girl- a whore - a human whore f-for his business. His whorehouse. He has what I w-want, so I went and I got him what he fuckin’ wants. Accept it now, girl, or-or it won’t end well for you. He only needs, only w-wants, the useful parts of you, everything else, all other damage, is inconsequential – to him.”

You can’t help it, you can’t help the fury, the rage that bubbles from a primal place inside of you like wildfire would through a field of dry grass.

Fury doesn’t begin to describe it, this feeling.

Hatred. Murderous and vile – just pure fucking hatred.

You watch as a red hue tints your vision and by then it’s too late to stop.

You jump forward and lunge at him, landing on the bed, your knees resting in your now spilled dinner.

You grasp blindly for the plastic fork you know is there and find it buried in the mashed potatoes smeared across your white duvet, thrusting the cutlery at his face. You miss him, but only barely, and he jumps back and out of your warpath. A look of surprise and disappointment turn the corners of his mouth down into a deep frown.

“I’d rather fucking die! You sick fuck, how could you?! How dare you! I’m a human, not a, not a THING! You can’t, you can’t just steal me away and sell me! I’ll fucking KILL YOU!” you howl, manic with indignation.

The chain attached to the heavy leather collar around your neck is straining as you struggle against it to lunge forward at your captor, who is now backed up against the door, watching silently with a steely gaze.

You’re shaking so hard by the end of your outburst that your leash is clinking softly with each wave of your tremors.

The fork drops from your grip and to the floor. You fall to the ground alongside it, wounded and completely drained by your own fury. Tears are streaming from your puffy, sore eyes, dripping methodically onto your now filthy, food stained nightgown.

He isn’t a doctor.

He isn’t a scientist.

He probably won’t rape you – and if he does, what does it matter? He will be the first in a long line if what he says is true.

Your hands lay palm up by your sides, limp, as you shake.

“Accept it,” he whispers, so softly-spoken yet so cruel, “We’re leaving tomorrow. It takes- It’s a three, maybe, uh, a four-day trip there.”

The stillness is only broken when he reaches out, his thin fingers stroking your head. It’s so completely unexpected and should probably scare you senseless, but instead, you find yourself leaning into the gentle touch.

He stiffens, perhaps not expecting your reaction, perhaps disgusted by it. That would make two of you.

His calloused fingertips trail down, over the shell of your ear and across the sensitive skin of your supple cheek. You turn your head, nose brushing against his digits, clammy forehead resting against his knuckles.

He’s warm.

You whimper, so soft and small and needy- it makes your stomach turn.

The man’s fingers trail further down your wet face, until they rest under your chin, pulling it upwards tenderly. Your frightened gaze follows his silent command without resistance, meeting his stare obediently.

His brows aren’t furrowed and his eyes are... soft.

Guilty.

It was, to say the least, unexpected.

Then, as soon as the gentleness came, it was gone again. He pulls his hand back with a jerk, as though recoiling from some potentially venomous plant and somehow, it makes your heart sink even further.

Your head drops back down. Tears puddling on the floor between your thighs, a small dripping sound ringing out in the otherwise silent room with every fat, miserable tear you shed.

Then, the keys are rattling and the door is opening and the only kindness, the only human touch, you have felt in the last three hundred and sixty something hours is slipping behind a thick steel slab and locking you away again, all alone and all broken.

Fifteen days.

Three hundred and sixty something hours.

Tomorrow morning will come and you will leave this place, for better or worse.

God, it makes you sick to your stomach when you register the bubble of excitement – or nerves – that gurgle in your belly at the thought of leaving.

It’s so fucked up, but even if it means resigning to the terrible fate he had planned for you, being able to see the sky, feel the cool breeze and warmth of a midday sun beat down on your bare skin once more, might just make it bearable.

One more night.

There's got to be nine more hours, eleven at most, you guess, until morning.

That’s all that’s left of the unbearable certainty this room has afforded you. After tonight, who knows what will come.

The only thing you can be certain of, absolutely sure of, is this moment – nothing else.

In that desperately sad knowledge, you try to soothe yourself.

You’re okay now, in this moment.

You’re safe.

With a small grunt of effort, you move to lay on your back. Resting on the cold, hard concrete floor, and stare up at the ceiling through wet lashes.

Your labored breaths become shallow, exhaustion taking over.

Fifteen days.

Three hundred and sixteen something hours.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You count the spots on the ceiling in your head, like a child would jumping sheep.

You never make it to thirty-two.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique are more than welcome!


	2. One Million Volts

 

When you finally begin to stir the feeling of your shoulder blades and hip bones screaming at you commands you to move.

Morning sunshine, you grumble internally, welcome back to your personal fucking hell.

You sit up, groaning weakly and blink the sleep from your still sore eyes.

How long have you been asleep?

It feels like only minutes, but maybe your body’s sense of time is completely out of whack after the weeks of isolation. Your skin is covered in goosebumps, the hairs on your arms raised.

Cold.

It’s really goddamn cold.

You slide your hands up and down your legs in a feeble attempt to warm your tepid flesh.

There is a bed, right by you, but the stubborn, foolish part of you refuses to get in.

Not now you know what he plans to do with you. If you get sick and die, good! Fuck him and his twisted plans.

The thought of his plan alone makes bile rise up in your throat, the bitter taste seeping into the back of your mouth, making you gag involuntarily.

A whore – that’s what he intends to trade you in as.

A whore, a fuck toy, a hole to be bought and sold and you apparently can do nothing to stop it from happening.

Your hands are now rubbing at your arms, the limbs having been exposed to the nighttime chill in the little white nightgown you wear.

Well, it was white, before your little incident yesterday with the man.

Now it’s smeared with mashed potatoes, peas and some sort of brown sauce. Your lip turns up in disgust as you wipe slurry of food from your front.

The smell of the rest of your dinner wafts oh-so alluringly from where it’s smeared on the duvet of the bed beside you.

Your stomach rumbles.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Nope, not doing it.

You’re not eating scraps from a sheet-like some starving dog.

A smart starving dog, albeit, one with strong survival instincts.

You swallow your pride, deciding that your growling belly is right- what does it matter if you degrade yourself, you need to eat so you’ll have the energy stored to get out of this mess when the opportunity presents itself.

You stand up slowly, stiff joints cracking loudly and perch yourself on the edge of the bed, picking peas from the mess and eating them gingerly.

The man has been feeding you three times a day, every day, but only in small portions. Keeping you hungry- keeping you obedient, you suppose.

God, what an asshole.

You finish most of what’s left of the meal and stare at the filthy sheets dejectedly.

What have you done to deserve this? Sure, you aren’t perfect. I mean, you never spent your free time doing charity or visit your grandparents enough and you’ve shoplifted a couple of times over the years, but this? This is surely out of balance with the laws of karma or whatever divine forces manage these kinds of affairs– right?

It’s during this existential crisis that you hear him, like a ghost, just outside your cell’s door.

You wipe the food scraps from your face hurriedly and sit on the bed, arms crossed in your lap, feet dangling inches from the ground.

When the door swings open, it reveals the blue-haired man standing with his arms full of clothes.

Your skin crawls with fear and suspicion and your heart skips several long beats.

You eye him like a rabbit would a wolf and in return, he narrows his eyes in a silent warning. Despite this, you do not look away. He groans, raising his free hand to his wrinkled brow and pinches hard at the bridge of his nose.

“Get on your knees, facing away from me,” he says, this time with no slur, no stutter – he’s not drunk, you note, “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You stare at one another for a long moment, your underlying fear of what he might do is very nearly trumped by the anger bubbling away in your belly.

Eventually, you uncross your arms and stand, turning around slowly and then settling down on your knees as instructed. With your back to him, you can hear as he locks the door and walks up right behind you, the sudden movement completely unsettling in this usually still, silent room.

He places the clothes on the bed in front of you, away from the smear of last nights incident.

“I’m going to remove the collar,” he grunts, “So you can change. I will hurt you if you try anything stupid.”

You turn to look up at him from where you kneel and shoot him a dark look.

“Yes, sir,” you grind out, all malice.

“I mean it,” he replies, unaffected by your foolish act of misplaced courage, pulling from his pant pocket a small black device – is that a taser? – and pressing the big red button on the front of it, letting electricity crackle loudly from the pronged tips, “Eyes forward.”

This time, you do not defy him.

He reaches into his pocket for his keys once more and, with his other hand, grips the back of your neck hard. It makes you jump, but he stills you with a squeeze- a second warning.

You can feel as the key slide into the lock on your collar, feel as its metal jaws open and free your neck. The sudden lack of support, constriction, is so surprising that you can’t help but whine in appreciation at the feeling. His hand remains on your neck, steadying you, as he lets the collar drop to the bed in front of you with a soft thud.

You eye it spitefully.

“There,” the man grunts, and his grip on you releases.

You feel almost lost without his grip, wobbling like a baby bird in his wake.

He points at the clothes in front of you.

“Get changed.”

You move to stand, slowly, glancing over your shoulder at him as if to ask for permission to reach for the bundle of clothes in front of you. The fucker rolls his eyes at you.

“Today, sweetheart.”

You flush indignantly, turning back and yanking your nightgown over your head. You toss it on the bed, reaching for the fresh black leggings and a black embroidered tank top, taking interest in the pretty lace trimming. You finger it between your thumb and forefinger, lost in memories of past pretty things you wore when he grunts.

“There’s, uh, underwear too,” he grumbles.

You note that, indeed, there is a fresh set of underwear in the pile.

Bright red and lacy.

They’re yours, you register vaguely, the gaudy set you bought last Valentines Day as a big fuck you to your asshole ex-boyfriend for going and fucking “she’s just a friend, babe” Stephanie Delaney while you were visiting your parents.

The fact that they’re here means he’s been inside your home.

It makes you want to ask him how long he spent watching you.

How many times you had been stalked, preyed upon, totally oblivious to your very imminent doom?

When you came home after work one night and the fridge door was open and sounding a shrill alarm, demanding to be shut, was that him?

Or when you got out of the shower that not-so-distant Sunday morning and found your favorite red lipstick sitting open on your vanity, despite you not having remembered touching it for days, was it the man with the blue hair’s doing?

Your heart stutters.

Your feel your cunt twitch, aroused by the disgusting realization.

Truly, it wasn’t the first time during this whole ordeal that the sick little voice in your head sounded with sordid delight.

You, despite all appearances, are a complete sexual degenerate.

The thought of being kicked in the stomach should make you cringe with fear, but it instead sends a thrill of twisted want through you.

You’ve always been like this, lusting for punishment and desperate to be useful – and to be used.

You just never imagined that living out one of your sick little fantasies would leave you so insanely torn between complete arousal and the more rational fear for your life.

Again, as you have before, you shove those thoughts back down into the dark pits of your consciousness from whence they came.

You know you’ve been lost in thought far too long when it happens. You nearly faint - the agonizing surge of white-hot electricity pulses through you, emanating from where his taser is pressed firmly against the crook your neck. The crackle of pain is gone as soon as it came and you cry out hoarsely, only to have the back of your neck grabbed roughly and shaken.

“I said today, you stupid little cunt,” the man practically snarls, shoving you toward the bed, making your knees smack against the metal frame with a sickening crack.

You scramble to straighten yourself, yanking your bra and panties off and pulling on the underwear, then clothes he had provided. You turn, eyes pointed firmly the man’s feet when you finish dressing and wait anxiously for your captor's next move.

“Hands out,” says the blue-haired monster, husky voice barely affected by his act of cruelty moment before.

You comply, eyeing him carefully as he pulls a pair of heavy looking handcuffs from his pocket and securing them around your wrists. They click shut and you swallow dryly, all too aware of the ease in which he punished you just moments ago.

The cuffs are attached to a chain, a leash, the handle of which he has wrapped around his hand firmly.

He tugs, making you stumble forward.

You don’t resist.

Satisfied, he lets the leash go slack, affording you a small reward for your obedience. You would, if you were more lucid, vehemently deny that it made your heart flutter – but you aren’t, and it does.

He unlocks the door swiftly, swinging it open with ease, but before he allows you to pass through the doorway and into the mysterious space beyond, he stops and turns to face you.

“Make a sound, you get shocked. Disobey me, you get shocked. Try and make a run for it, well…” he states, a matter of fact and cold as ice, “I’ll turn it on and shove it down your throat and we can just wait until you p-pass out.”

It’s all you can do not to cry.

You nod.

He waits.

Slowly, with no little amount of trepidation, you raise your wary gaze and meet his firm one. You nod again, compliant and sweet and you hate yourself for it.

What is wrong with you?

You should hate it, but you’re so tired of hating him and that room and the unbearable loneliness that you barely have any energy to hate anything anymore.

“Good,” he grunts, turning on his heels and marching you out into the space beyond your little concrete cocoon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique are more than welcome!


	3. Twelve Times Tables

 

You soon realize you are deep in some sort of underground building complex, though it’s smaller than you expected it to be. The hallway is scattered with small rooms full of bizarre trinkets, glowing rocks, and cluttered workstations.

It confirms your past suspicion that he is, in fact, a scientist of some sort.

Although, a very fucking twisted one.

The man leads you to the mouth of the hallway with which your cell sat at the opposite end of.

Beyond it is a larger space, cluttered with more workstations, more strange glowing objects, and a small kitchenette. You notice a mug with the phrase “World’s Best Grandpa” sitting by the sink and store that tidbit of information away for later use.

You’re lead to the middle of the room and onto a- platform?

A squeak escapes you when the circle of metal beneath the two of you begins to rise upwards, followed by the ceiling above sliding open to reveal a room beyond it.

As you are lifted out of the dungeon from where you have been locked away, you feel more uneasy than ever.

You scoot closer to the blue haired man in a bid to quell your anxiety. Insane, yes, but he’s been the only constant in your time here and you can’t help but want the deeply conflicting reassurance of his presence.

It’s as if he can read your mind because you barely finish the thought before he tightens his grip on your leash, tugging you even closer to him.

The platform has lifted you high enough now that you can peer into the room you are being raised into and you want to snort because it’s a fucking garage.

You’ve been locked in a secret room, in a secret lab, beneath a garage.

Your amusement is cut short when your eyes finally rest on what looks like a… craft? A ship? A goddamn UFO, sitting in the middle of an otherwise generic garage, parked where a car should be.

You’re bug-eyed, whirling your head back around to stare at your captor in wonder.

Who the hell is this man?

He doesn’t even look at you. His free, spidery hand fumbles in his pocket and grabs his keys to press a button on what looks like a car key. The ship's doors fling open, upwards, like a fucking Tesla.

“Get in,” he grumbles, tugging you forward with him as he leads you to what you assume is the passenger side of the craft.

You do just that, lost in your own wonder as you climb awkwardly through the door, your eyes flitting about the interior with wild interest. The dashboard is littered with buttons, lever, and lights. There are crushed cans of beer and empty glass bottles lining the floor – which, you add, takes away from the overall spectacle.

You’re fascinated, so much so that for a moment you even forget to be scared.

The leash and cuffs are attached to a metal fixture on the dashboard in front of where you sit and the door is slammed shut beside you. It makes you jump, snapping you out of your daze and back to the present. The man is grumbling as he walks around to the driver's side and clambers in, slamming his door shut too.

You stare at him.

You want to ask if this is a spaceship– you really do – but your desire not to choke to death on a taser is stronger.

Scooting back in your seat, you watch as he flips switches and adjusts dials on the dash by the steering wheel. Strands of your hair fall in your face and you lift your cuffed hands, tucking them behind your ear.

You should probably try to make a run for it, you think, but the idea just floats away numbly. Somehow, the revelation that your captor has what you assume is a spaceship hint that you are in way over your head.

Too far gone.

You’ve been sinking fast and now you’re running out of air.

Sixteen days of solitary confinement does that to a person.

It breaks them down, makes them pliant and weak.

Pathetic.

The door to the garage begins rolling upwards with a metallic shriek and you glance at him. Swallowing thickly, you open your mouth to beg him to let you go but he turns to glower at you before you can.

Suddenly, you feel even smaller.

He cocks a brow, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other on the brim of the driver side’s window.

“Don’t,” you blurt out, spluttering and terrified, knowing you have to at least try, “Please, I won’t tell anyone. Just let me out and you won’t ever see me again. I promise.”

He sighs.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says, sounding tired, “No can do.”

And then the ship begins to levitate.

The hum of the engine masks your whimper.

You screw your eyes shut, turning away from him, to face the window on your side. You pretend you’re on a plane- lifting off from the runway, all nerves and excitement, your destination somewhere beautiful, somewhere that doesn’t end in slavery.

You pretend everything is going to be alright.

 

 

* * *

 

  

You must have fallen asleep somewhere in the period between rocketing up from the ground in the old man’s glorified tin can and counting out your times tables internally- 12 x 7 is 84, 12 x 8 is 96 and so on.

You never reached 12 x 12.

It’s 144.

Blinking wearily, you can’t help but startle when all you see out of your window is black. Empty, shimmering blackness as far as you can see and then further. Out of the corner of your eye, in the ships rear view mirror you see Earth.

Behind you.

Getting smaller and smaller.

You begin to hyperventilate, handcuffs clinking as you move to press yourself against the window, watching desperately as everything you’ve ever known disappears behind you.

You’re wild with panic when a hand grabs the back of your neck and shoves you back down into your seat.

“Calm the f-fuck, Jesus, c-c-calm down,” he says, the stutter having returned in full force, “Just- Just sit still, w-will you?”

You stare at him with a look of incredulity.

“We’re in space,” you splutter, “Oh my god, we’re in fucking space, aren’t we?”

“Wow, ha, w-wow,” he says, eyeing you with a cocked brow, “Y-Y-You think, sweetheart?”

“Why are we in space?” you continue, unable to stop yourself, “Why the fuck are we in space right now? This is- this is insane? You’re insane! Why are we in fucking space?!”

The back of his hand comes into contact with your cheek with a sharp whack, startling you, then again, this time even harder. You still.

“S-shut up,” he growls, taking another swig from the flask in his hand before shoving it at you, “Drink this, it’ll- it’ll calm you the f-fuck down.”

You take it and drain the contents down your throat eagerly, wincing at the ungodly burn.

Jesus, is this gasoline?

You cough harshly, into your shoulder. Your abused cheeks are stinging hotly and a couple of fresh tears spill down them. Raising the flask once more, you take another long swig and screw your eyes shut, waiting for the burn.

It’s completely awful and when you hand the metal canteen back to him you can already feel the vile liquids effects flooding through you, relaxing your muscles and slowing your thundering pulse.

Calm you the fuck down, it sure did.

“Thank you,” you mumble, risking a glance at him once more.

He’s staring, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his lip.

Fucker.

“Wh-what-EUUURGH-ever,” he says, burping without a hint of shame, “Just chill, chill the f-fuck out, kid.”

He reaches forward, flipping on what looks like a radio ripped straight out of some shitty car, and a strange melody floods the vehicle. It sounds like a whale and a jazz band had a bastard child and let it loose in a big echoing chamber. Actually, it sounds sort of… lovely.

Or maybe you’re just drunk.

Either way, you let the music distract you from the otherwise bizarre situation you have found yourself in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After what feels like whole days go by, the man with the blue hair reaches for the steering wheel and makes a turn towards- is that a fucking motel on a floating rock in space?

You eye it suspiciously, trying to figure out if it’s some sort of hallucination, perhaps an effect from the drink you’d guzzled down hours ago. Stranger things have happened.

Alas, it is not a feverish vision you realize as the ship begins to descend into the parking lot below. There are other ships parked there, the layout comedically similar to any rinky-dink highway motel back on Earth.

Seedy characters and motels go together like peanut butter and jelly, after all– perhaps it’s a common theme in space too.

When you land, the ship jolts to a sudden stop.

You look over at the man, waiting for him to give you an explanation. He pockets his keys and slams his door in your expectant face. You scowl.

He leaves you there, strolling up to what appears to be the front office and disappears inside.

It pisses you off.

What, he doesn’t think you’ll try and make a run for it?

Does he think you’re simple?

You clamber forward to inspect where you are tethered to the dashboard, yanking at the restraints to gauge their durability. They’re solid and without the keys currently in your captors pocket, breaking free is not an option.

You move your attention instead to the other buttons and levers in front of you.

Maybe you can start the ship without needing the keys and just fly the fuck out of there.

It’s a long shot, but it doesn’t stop you from beginning to frantically press and pull each and every lever and button you can reach. The windshield wipers are turned on, the AC too, and the boot pops open. There’s a loud hum when you press a blue button by the steering wheel and you recoil in horror as a miniature missile launcher begins to appear from between a slot in the hood of the vehicle and launches one of the ballistics into the empty space beyond the parking lot.

You’re so fucked.

You hear him screaming before you can react, swinging your head towards the office from where he is sprinting.

You’re so fucking fucked, oh my god.

Scrambling, you kick at where your leash is chained to the dashboard, desperately trying to free yourself.

It’s no use.

You feel like you’re about to go into cardiac arrest when your door is flung open.

He’s seething, screaming at you to “F-Fucking STOP!” but you continue to thrash, trying to wriggle away from him as he tries to restrain you.

The man halfway straddles you in your seat, sitting on your cuffed wrists, preventing you from using your hands. You're still kicking wildly, yelling for someone to help you when he smothers you with his hand.

“I sw-swear to fucking G-G-God, I’m gonna kill- I will break y-your legs,” he snarls, eyes wild with rage, “STOP!”

You bite him.

Hard.

He yelps, trying to pull his hand back from you, but you only bite down harder and harder until you feel his skin give way and blood floods your mouth. He brings his free hand up to pinch your nose shut.

“L-Let go now or I’m gonna- FUCK,” he splutters, bringing his knee up and swiftly into your side, instantly winding you, “YOU CUNT!”

You let go, vision spotty, and spit his blood at him with a snarl.

“FUCK YOU!” you scream in his face.

His enraged features are covered with a splattering of his blood and your spit and you can tell he’s about to throttle you before he does.

It only takes one solid punch for him to knock you out cold.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique are more than welcome!


	4. That's a First

 

It’s all so fuzzy when you open your eyes.

You feel your head throbbing, your ribs too.

You try to steady yourself, but you can’t.

You’re upside down, over someone’s shoulder, being carried up stairs.

Your vision goes black once more

 

 

* * *

  

 

The feeling of being dropped onto a soft surface brings you back around.

You feel like you’re about to throw up, lurching onto your side and grasping at what feels like a duvet underneath you. Groaning weakly, your arms are yanked upwards and you hear as your cuffs are once again attached to some unseen object.

The sound of a door being slammed shut sends your eyes fluttering open.

You wince, the light above you is bright and artificial.

Squinting, you weakly survey your surroundings – you’re in what you assume is a room in the motel, laying on a round bed with white sheets. Looking upwards, you can see where your handcuffs are fastened to the bed’s metal headboard.

You try and sit up, but your legs are like jello and the attempted upwards motion makes the room spin around you wildly.

The whole left side of your face is red hot and aching, your teeth hurt and your cheekbone might just be broken.

Shame coils in your gut.

You brought this on yourself.

Stupid.

Why are you so fucking stupid?

Your squinting gaze flits around the room – it seems very… normal. For an alien motel. There’s an armchair in the corner by the entrance to the far left, a dresser in front of the bed and to your right a door, leading to what you assume is the room’s bathroom. It’s shut and you can hear the sound of running water coming from behind it.

He’s probably showering, washing away all evidence of your defiance.

Speaking of which, you’re so fucked.

You defied him – you had to at least try to get away – and now you’re gonna pay for it. You could see it in his eyes when you spat blood at his screwed up face, watched as it collected in the lines of his features as they contorted with rage.

Remembering the look he gave you frightens you.

It also makes your pussy tingle.

The memory of his blind fury, his strong hands on you – on your neck, in your hair, around your throat – the feeling of his body straddling you, pinning you down… it makes you weak with lust.

You can’t even deny it as the evidence of your arousal soaks through your panties.

Here you are, captive, on some alien motel bed in the middle of the universe, about to be battered, and it actually makes your heart flutter with anticipation.

Maybe he’ll use the taser again.

The little bundle of nerves between your slick folds throbs eagerly.

You hear the sound of water suddenly stop from inside the bathroom.

Trying to save face, you shut your eyes and pretend to be passed out, wanting to gauge the situation before the man realizes you are awake and doles out whatever punishment he surely has in mind.

You hear the door open and heavy footsteps approach where you are strewn across the bed. They stop right by where your head is resting.

Your heart is thundering and you feel your pussy clench.

Stop it, you beg the more rational part of yourself- this is so fucked up, stop being a pervert for one goddamn second and use your head.

This is definitely not erotic.

At all.

Well, maybe a little.

You can feel him glaring at you as you struggle to keep your features blank, desperately trying to convince him that you are still unconscious.

When you feel him shift beside you, hearing the rustle of fabric as he reaches into his pocket, you realize what’s coming before it does.

“W-W-Wakey wakey, little- little l-lady,” he breathes, feeling the boozey exhale whoosh over your face as he leans down, husky voice mere inches from your ear, “Open your- l-look at me and fuckin’ apologize for acting like a, like an animal.”

The tell-tale electric crackle of the taser startles you and you can’t help but jerk.

He laughs, sadistic and cold.

You feel your cheeks turn red and your aching cunt throb.

Still, you refuse to open your eyes.

The unbearably loud sound of your heartbeat is drowning out all hope of rational thought as your hands grasp the duvet beneath you for support. Hopelessly, you pretend to be asleep.

“H-Have it your way,” the man mutters.

The taser flickers to life.

You whimper.

He lunges forward – you can feel the air shift as he does – and presses the taser against the crook of your neck, hard.

Agony.

White hot, all-consuming fucking agony swallows you whole.

You scream, eyes open and unseeing as electricity lights you up like a Christmas tree, licking at your every nerve with scalding hot tongues. Your body twists and contorts and thrashes on the bed.

Still, he does not relent.

It feels like you’re going to die.

Then, worst of all, your scream becomes a guttural moan and your cunt clenches tightly.

That’s all the warning you get before you cum – hard.

Pain and pleasure become one. Your hips arch up from the bed and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You feel like you’re having an out of body experience, floating away further and further with every wave of ecstasy that smashes into you.

You come crashing back down to Earth as the taser is suddenly removed from your neck.

The loss of sensation sends you keening, making obscene noise as you try to gather your bearings. It feels like your brain is rebooting. Your vision is spotty and your whole body is vibrating.

You feel a rough hand grip your jaw firmly, shaking you in some sort of attempt to bring you back around. You make a lusty, braindead noise in response.

It’s only when the back of his leathery palm slams into your left cheek that you finally come to your senses.

His face is only inches from yours and he’s straddling you, sharp features twisted in this expression of both intrigued and annoyance.

You just came.

From being tasered.

And he saw it.

He just fucking watched you have the most intense orgasm of your life - from being tasered.

You might actually die from shame.

You screw your eyes shut and turn your head away but he grabs you by the jaw again and forces you to look at him. The entirety of your face is red and twisted into a grimace of complete humiliation.

“You- you just fucking,” he breathes, astonished, the words forcing you to make eye contact with him, “You just came, d-didn’t you?”

Swallowing thickly, you answer.

“No,” you mumble, bluffing poorly, “You f-freak.”

Your eye contact is unwavering despite how desperately you want to bury your face in the duvet. His pale brow quirks as a sadistic smirk reveals itself.

“Liar.”

It’s completely unexpected when a hand is shoved into your leggings and you squeak with surprise when two long digits trace along your clothed slit. Your panties are soaked with your cum.

In one fell swoop, he has complete proof of your degeneracy.

You’ve never been seen like this – no one has ever known about your sick thoughts or morally questionable fantasies.

It feels like you’ve been turned inside out, every part of your psyche exposed to someone you wouldn’t dare trust, someone who will no doubt use it against you.

It’s terrifying.

You watch in horror as he pulls his hand out of your pants, slick, and smelling of your arousal. He stares at them, looking both fascinated and concerned, before looking at your bright red face again.

Your lips are parted and any attempt at explaining away the evidence becomes lodged in your throat. Instead, you puff out strangled noises of embarrassment. Your eyes are locked with his in a wordless exchange.

Then he does something that sends shivers up your spine – he licks his fingers.

His tongue drags up the length of the digits that had been touching your pussy.

He’s tasting you.

Your pupils blow out, warmth rushing south as he pops them into his mouth and sucks.

“Oh,” you mewl, voice breathy and soft.

Your clit throbs eagerly as his fingers slide out of his mouth with a wet pop, slick with his spit now and glistening under the fluorescent lights.

You expect him to fuck you right then and there.

You’re almost sure he will.

That’s why when he slides off from where he was straddling you, breaking the intense eye contact you had been holding, you look confused.

Doesn’t he want you?

Maybe he’s disgusted?

You watch him, desperate and aching, as he walks to the front door and leaves the room without another word. He makes sure to look the door, though.

After a tense couple of minutes, it’s obvious he isn’t coming back anytime soon.

“Did that really just happen?” you mutter to yourself, both baffled and embarrassed, “What the fuck.”

It’s then when you are absolutely sure that your life can’t get any worse, that the lights switch off and send the room into total darkness.

Fucking motion sensor lights.

You wiggle on the bed, trying to activate them again without any success - even waving your legs in the air doesn’t work.

You’re exhausted and humiliated and confused and horny and you want to go home and watch trashy reality TV while eating a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.

You can’t even roll onto your side – not without pulling your shoulder of the socket. So, you just stare holes into the ceiling, contemplating all the ways you could be spending your night if you hadn’t been kidnapped and subsequently trafficked across the universe by a blue-haired scientist with a drinking problem.

Needless to say, the list is long.

Somewhere between thinking about re-painting your apartment and marathoning shitty horror movies, you drift into a listless sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique are more than welcome!


	5. Stupid and Happy

  

The smell of vodka – or is it drain cleaner? - stirs you.

The room is no longer dark and you are no longer alone.

Your eyelids are heavy with the desire to continue to sleep and your abused left cheek throbs faintly, but beyond that, the first thing you really consciously notice is the figure perched on the edge of the bed. For a moment you forget that you’re tethered to the headboard and try to sit upwards, resulting in a useless flopping motion that seems to catch your company’s attention.

You blink, weary of what is to come. 

He looks over his shoulder at you, expression hard, cold.

His blue hair is even messier than before.

His cheeks are flushed, too.

He’s drunk.

Your captor raises a label-less bottle to his lips, pale pink liquid swirling in its glass prison, and he takes a long swig. You’re staring at each other in a wordless exchange of mutual uncertainty while he drinks. 

You clear your throat and move, this time more carefully, to sit upright.

“Can I, uh, have some?” you mumble, weary, only half sure you won’t be punished for asking.

The blue haired man just stares at you.

He takes another long swig, before standing and wobbling over precariously to sit beside you. You flinch instinctively when he offers you the flask too quickly. The man raises an eyebrow, his lips turning into an annoyed scowl.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He raises the bottle to your lips again and you open your mouth eagerly to drink from it, desperate for some sort of escape. It’s vile – like drinking shampoo, thick and soapy and bitter. He holds the bottle there for too long, forcing you to drink more than you want, his eyes boring deeply into yours with punishing intent.

“Don’t fu-fuckin’ spill- waste a-a-a drop,” he growls, voice raspy and deep.

Tears spill from your burning eyes as you comply, swallowing obediently until the last drops of putrid liquid are emptied down your throat. You splutter, gagging, as you finish.

The man pulls the bottle away and tosses it to the floor.

It hits you fast, faster than even the drink he had given you on your exodus from Earth. Your body feels light, as though the blood in your veins has been carbonated, bubbling through you pleasantly.

The tense muscles of your battered body relax as you slip into a blissful calm. When you finally adjust to the foreign feeling, you glance back at your captor to gauge his mood.

He’s staring at you.

His pale eyes are impossible to read.

You find it frustrating. The drink has whisked away your fear and inhibitions but has left your curiosity intact. You want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling – you want to know everything about him, really.

A quiet, frustrated sigh escapes you.

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out another flask to drink from.

A part of you yearns for him to pull you into his lap.

Another part of you wants what’s in that flask.

You can’t help but lean towards him and rest your cheek on his shoulder. You feel like you’re floating and you need him to ground you.

He stiffens as soon as you do, though, giving you an incredulous look with those steely blue irises. You blink up at him through your lashes with a pathetic, pleading gaze.

You should be terrified of him.

Should be.

Instead, there are waves of warmth ebbing from his lithe, muscular body into yours. The sensation is so comforting that you want to press even closer. You want to open him up and climb inside.

“What… what was that stuff?” you murmur, a slur present.

He doesn’t respond – not with words.

Instead, he lifts a hand, carefully, slowly, as to not startle you. His gaze appraises you carefully. The man’s cold, rough fingers brush against your cheek and trace the outline of what you assume is a newly bloomed bruise. 

It makes you shiver.

You hear his breath hitch.

It’s a strange reminder that this enigma of a man is human too.

“Mhm,” you mewl, leaning into the gentle touch far too eagerly.

“Rick,” he says.

Your pupils are blown wide when you look up at him. 

“Huh?”

“My name,” he says again, this time softer, his thumb stroking over your parted lips with tenderness, “It’s Rick.” 

It takes a long moment before you can manage to formulate a somewhat appropriate response.

“Oh,” you murmur breathily, suppressing a moan as his thumb slips inside your mouth and strokes over your tongue, inhibiting your ability to respond, “Nice to meet you, Rick.”

Your flippant response catches him off guard and his gaze flickers from heady lust to amusement. His thumb slips from your mouth and he instead takes your chin in his grasp. 

A chuckle – warm and hearty and real and completely addictive – rumbles from him.

You watch as a mist of surely misplaced affection shrouds Rick’s once heartless gaze. If you were standing you’re sure your knees would have buckled under the weight of your new found, overwhelming need to please him.

When you move to lean into him he lets you. A happy little mewl escapes you as your fragile heart skips a beat. You press your face into the crook of his neck and inhale deeply.

He smells like petrol and musk and it makes your heart flutter.

Rick’s nimble fingers stroke through your hair, soothing you.

You don’t even think about how reckless it is when you press a kiss to his throat. 

You wait for him to yank you away, to punish you, to look at you with disgust but he never does. 

He just holds you.

This gentleness was so sorely needed.

You feel yourself shake with emotion, your tethered hands balling up into useless fists.

For a long time, there is no movement. 

The two of you sit there, embracing one another.

He keeps running his digits through your tangled hair, working the knots out.

You keep peppering his jugular with naive little kisses.

You’re so stupid.

You know that.

You just can’t force yourself to care anymore.

Instead, you let your desire for comfort take the reigns.

So what if you’re stupid?

You’re stupid and happy and, frankly, that’s better than being brave and dead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique are more than welcome!


	6. I'd Rather Be Destroyed By You

 

For too long you sat there, wrapped up in a dangerous embrace.

You and Rick were all alone in your strange cocoon. The outside world couldn’t reach you there. Your inner world was serene, thoughts drifting easily through your mind like clouds through a spring sky.

The pink liquid’s narcotic aftermath still bubbled through your veins and your head still swam with naive contentment.

Rick’s expert fingers had ceased working through your hair - the knots had all been untangled, your locks arranged neatly and any flyaways smoothed down.

You stopped kissing his neck when he stopped playing with your hair.

Perhaps you were finally coming to your senses.

Perhaps you never lost sight of them.

After all, you are a stupid girl.

Stupid and desperate for something to hold onto, to ground you, in this unhinged reality you’ve been forced to endure.

Perhaps even desperate for something more depraved – something self-destructive and masochistic.

When you finally lift your head from his shoulder to peer up at him, your eyes meet his.

Rick’s face is firmly set in a conflicted frown. His eyes are careful, measured. Yours are surely dewy-eyed and entirely too eager to be exploited.

He must think you’re an idiot.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to care.

Honestly, it’s not all your fault - I mean it was the drink that made you so shamelessly trusting and pliable.

And how could you resist?

You so sorely needed the blissful reprieve from thinking.

Being a stupid girl is easy.

The sound of Rick’s gruff voice startles you out of your pondering.

“We-We’ve gotta, uh, gonna have ‘ta leave s-soon,” he says, slurring, “Takin’ too long already.”

You shouldn’t be surprised.

You shouldn’t be wounded.

You shouldn’t have thought anything had changed just because he fucking played with your hair.

The floating sensation you’d been enjoying spilled from you - as though you had been hung upside down and your neck sliced open, to be bled out like livestock. Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach where it sits, like a heavy stone. The sensation is sickening.

The turmoil is written all over your face, you’re sure of it.

Rick’s gaze grows distant as he watches you panic.

You lick your lips.

“Rick,” you start, voice small.

His brow furrows deeply when you use his name, but he stays silent, waiting patiently for you to finish.

“It doesn’t have to… be this way.”

You see something appear in those steely eyes – regret, perhaps? - but it’s only a flicker. You watch as he beats it back so anger can take its place.

Rick’s fingers slider up into your hair from where his hand was resting on the back of your neck and he grabs a handful of locks roughly. You attempt to wriggle away from his wrath, but he only grips your hair more tightly.

You wince.

Rick yanks, pulling you by your hair, to forcefully draw you closer to him. The brutal grip forces your face to press into his.

Your noses are smushed together.

His eyes bore into yours maliciously.

Your heart is thundering, again, naively taken aback by the man’s sudden, violent reaction. Rick had been so gentle, so tender only minutes before.

But what did you expect?

He’s hurt you before.

He could kill you if he wanted.

He doesn’t care about your well being.

He doesn’t care about you.

He just cares about selling you.

You stupid fucking girl.

“I’m fuckin’ b-bored of your, y-your beggin’ girl,” Rick seethes, cruelly twisting your head to the side, grinding your face against his.

Fat tears spill from your eyes, wetting both of your faces.

“You’re goin’, I don’t wanna hear – just cause your c-cute doesn’t mean I’m gonna g-get soft. There’s no, no goddamn wigglin’ outta this, girl. I gotta get Mor- him back. He matters more. He-He’s always gonna matter m-more. You’re fuckin’ nothing, nothing to m-me.”

Stupid. Fucking. Girl.

You whimper, your fingers grasping at the air uselessly. Both of your shoulders feel like they’re about to be dislocated from being pulled against the cuffs. Tears are trickling freely from your downcast gaze.

He yanks at your hair again and you can’t help but cry out.

“Rick!”

The blue-haired man scowls, his brow twitching as you give him a pleading look.

“You’re _nothing_ ,” he growls, bitter and sadistic and heartbreaking.

You kiss him.

On the lips – you kiss him square on the lips, open-mouthed and full of apologies.

You feel him stiffen under the touch.

It’s probably not a normal reaction, you consider as you slip your tongue in his mouth and trace along his teeth. It’s probably really fucked up. But it seems Rick is sick too because he moans hungrily into your open mouth and leans into the kiss.

You’re licking and kissing and breathing each other in, eagerly swallowing shared breathy sounds. He tastes like whiskey and smoke. He bites your bottom lip, hard. You involuntarily moan as the taste of blood floods into your open-mouthed kiss.

It’s definitely really fucked up.

It’s also really fucking perfect.

You break the kiss and press your forehead to Rick’s, looking right into his lidded eyes as you speak.

“Make me something then.”

He gives you a conflicted look.

“Y-You’re damaged, aren’t ya?” he says, breathless, “You – you know that, that this isn’t – it’s not a normal reaction, right?”

“I’m not normal,” you say, laughing quietly, giddy, “Thought you would’ve figured that out after the taser incident.”

He raises a brow at that.

“W-Well that, yeah, that was a-a clue,” Rick replies, conceding.

You look at each other in silence for a long moment, studying one another, looking for something – what exactly, you have no idea. Maybe for fear. Maybe shame. Maybe regret. Whatever it is, you never find it. The blue haired man doesn’t seem to either.

“I could be yours, y’know,” you mumble against his lips between kisses, futile as they may be, “I would be good – so good – for you.”

“Oh?” he says sounding torn between frustration and intrigue.

You look up through your lashes at him.

It makes your heart flutter, noting not for the first time, that he is so fucking handsome. All weathered skin and sharp angles. He must’ve been a sight to behold when he was younger. He’s a sight to behold now, really.

The depth of his gaze isn’t lost on you either.

This man, this enigma – Rick – has seen things you couldn’t fathom and here he is, heading your plea.

“You can have me. Everything, I’ll give you everything. All of me,” you breathe, teary-eyed, “I’ll help you get him back. I’ll play along – do anything, just, please, don’t throw me away.”

“W-What makes you think I want y-you?” Rick probes, seemingly unaffected by your desperation.

“I could be useful,” you reply, breath hitching in little pants, “I could make myself useful, for you.”

“Useful? You think, think I-I-I need help?” he says, annoyed now.

“No! Not help, no,” you scramble, “I could… serve you.”

“Serve me?” his blue brow raises at that.

Your cheeks are flaming and so flushed they’re the same color as crushed raspberries.

“Uh,” you start, voice wobbling and small, “Well, yes.”

“You... ” Rick chuckles darkly as he speaks, clearly enjoying watching you flounder to please him, “You’re tellin’ me you, you wanna trade in intergalactic sex s-slavery to be my personal whore? How is – h-how’s that any better? Cause’ you’d be on, on _Earth_?!”

“Because I’d be yours,” shame fills you as you answer, horrified at the sick truth in it.

He pulls back, letting you settle on the bed. Your shoulders are screaming from the drawn-out strain. Rick runs a hand through his wild blue locks, his gaze flitting to the floor.

You watch him carefully.

One of two things could happen;

Firstly, he could refuse your pathetic plea.

It wouldn’t shock you – in fact, part of you wants him to hate you for suggesting such an arrangement. It’s a perverse request. Something only a depraved, hollow being would choose.

Or, secondly, he could accept your offer.

Perhaps that would be worse. It would confirm your degeneracy, yes, but it would also grant this tyrant of a man rule over you. He would be able to pull you apart and break you down into subatomic particles, to see that not a single part of you is free from corruption.

“You’d be ruined,” Rick said, finally.

His voice is soft, thoughtful, but no kinder than before.

You can only wait for his next move. The air in the motel room humid and heavy with morbid anticipation.

“I would _ruin_ you,” he says, almost sad.

It takes you by surprise.

He looks up at you.

Rick’s gaze is heavy with grim implications.

“Please,” you breathe.

“You don’t… you don’t want that,” he says, voice still teetering between sadness and cruelty.

“I would rather be destroyed by you than sold to someone else,” you whimper, tears spilling down your cheeks, clouding your vision.

There’s silence again as the ramifications of your words settle in the room.

What Rick says next breaks your heart in the most sublime way.

“Then you b-better come to, to terms with your inevitable ruin, girl.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique are more than welcome!
> 
> Things are getting interesting. x


	7. Naivety in the Company of Celestial Wonders

 

The story was long.

He had warned you, but you’d insisted on hearing it in its totality.

His name is Rick Sanchez.

He’s a scientist.

He’s also an intergalactically wanted criminal – morally questionable entrepreneur and a voracious opportunist, he’d corrected himself – who lives with one of the infinite versions of his family on one of the infinite versions of Earth.

Oh yeah, there are infinite realities.

Mind-blowing, right?

Except not really – that particular revelation was surprisingly easy to accept after the last two weeks of total insanity.

Rick has a grandson, Morty.

He mentioned something about Morty being the antithesis of Rick’s genius and therefore essential for hiding from the intergalactic powers that be. Their brain waves cancel each other out or something.

Rick was off world a lot – either he would use his ship to travel or, for inter-dimensional trips, his portal gun. Apparently, during his last off world “business” deal, Rick had majorly fucked up.

He and Morty had been on Hux-9 Delta, a celestial dwarf in dimension L760, where they were supposed to trade a fresh batch of Kalaxian crystals for intel on the Council of Rick’s.

“Council of Rick’s?” you had asked, intrigued.

“It’s a, that’s a-a whole other story, sweetheart,” Rick had waved it off before continuing.

“Anyway, so M-Morty and I are just – y’know, chillin’ - and the fuckin’ asshole Yarg who owns the club we’re meeting in just goes and f-flips the fuck out! He’s all ‘You’re a spy!’ and I’m all ‘What the f-fuck is wrong with you? I’m no spy!’. Anyway, I’m pissed at the point, right? So I pull my, my gun on him and start shootin’ and before I know it, he’s got Morty. I mean, he has a gun l-literally shoved down the fuckin’ kid’s throat.”

You nodded, listening diligently, your freshly un-handcuffed hands clasped together in your lap.

“There are infinite Morties. I shoulda just, just let it happen. I should’ve. But, I didn’t. I love- like the kid a lot, y’know? He’s, uh, my M-Morty. I couldn’t bear to watch his head get b-blown off ‘cause of me. So, I bargained with Yarg.”

Rick looked so uncharacteristically emotional talking about Morty, it had taken you by surprise.

“He wanted a, a human g-girl. An Earth girl. So I crawled back without Morty and without my portal gun. The a-asshole had demanded I hand it over, as collateral. Yarg, uh, Yarg wanted the girl to be pre-trained. Docile was the word he’d used. I found y-you walking home late and followed you. I watched you f-for a week. Honestly, I was trying to figure o-out a way to get Morty back without k-kidnapping you.”

The confirmation that Rick had been stalking you had made you feel torn, your emotions flipping between disgust and giddiness.

“But, I, uh, I obviously did. T-take you, that is. After that, I put you through t-two weeks of Yarg’s conditioning program. He said it’d break you in.”

“Make me docile?” you’d questioned, searching Rick’s expression, trying to read how he truly felt behind his stony mask.

“Y-yeah, sweetheart,” Rick had replied, his hand coming up to touch your chin, “Didn’t q-quite work that way though, did-did it now?”

You laughed like an airhead.

God, it was an absurd conversation.

Still, when he called you sweetheart you couldn’t deny the surge of delighted butterflies that swirled in your stomach.

He continued.

“Now, we’re, uh, we’re here. It’s not the outcome I expected,” Rick said and ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down, “It’s better – better than I expected.”

You stayed quiet and waited for more – more insights, more explanations – but none came.

Rick had gotten up and told you to stay in the room and wait for him while he got things ready. You nodded, far too eager, at his command.

He laughed.

Then, he left.

Then, you waited.

Such a stupid girl.

 

* * *

 

Leaving the motel was almost melancholic.

The dingy, repulsively non-descript room was, for a time, a place of hope. It was where things went from bad to worse to almost sane again. Or, from kidnapped to coming from being tasered to surrendering yourself entirely to Rick - to the lesser of two evils, you’d argued with yourself.

You would miss the scratchy sheets, stupid motion sensor lights and noxious odor of alien cleaning products.

You would miss the certainty of your surroundings.

Although, you would not miss listening to alien’s fuck each other to death in the next room over.

It was awkward listening to such erotic noises reverberate through the room with Rick there, staring at you, watching you squirm. It made you dizzy with want.

Now, in the ship once more – this time un-cuffed – you feel anxiety bubble up inside you as Rick starts the engine. The feeling of just lifting up from the ground is unsettling on its own, so when the craft rockets upwards suddenly you have to hold in a frightened squeak. You look over at Rick, searching for reassurance, and find his face stoic. His calmness settles your nerves almost immediately.

“Are we going to get Morty now?” you ask, hands folded in your lap, your voice soft.

Rick glances at you, his brow furrowed slightly.

He turns away, back to the path ahead, and pulls out his flask.

“No, we’re going tomorrow,” the man says between swigs, “We’re g-going to a motel nearby. It’s on Hux Delta-9. On the same plan- celestial dwarf as Morty is.”

“Alright,” you nod, tucking your hair behind your ear.

The sensible part of you is suspicious – something isn’t right with Rick. The way he’s speaking to you, looking at you, is off. You fidget in your seat, uncomfortable.

You force your gaze away from the blue haired man and his tense aura and out the window.

The view is, after all, incredible.

The craft is shooting through the inky depths of space and, every now and then, a planet or star or whole galaxy catches your eye. The array of colors alone send your mind reeling.

How can something so beautiful exist?

The glittering, luminescent objects entrance you.

One after another, the universe provides a new miracle to behold, to covet, before you rocket away from them forever.

It’s heartbreaking in the best way.

You have always felt out of place, not quite at home, on Earth. But here, in space, amongst eons old celestial wonders, you feel as though you belong.

You feel real.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter but, don't fear, the next will surely make up for it with debauchery abound. ♡
> 
> Comments and critique are more than welcome!


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